


6 Days of Spooky

by ancient illwynd (illwynd)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen, Horror, Humor, M/M, Spooky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-26
Updated: 2006-10-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 12:20:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 7,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9071359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwynd/pseuds/ancient%20illwynd
Summary: A collection of drabbles and ficlets written for the 6 Days of Spooky challenge.





	1. We are always hungry

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just dragging these over from LJ for archiving. Nothing new here!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere in Mirkwood

We are always hungry.  
  
We spin our webs, but the forest is emptier than it has been in years past. Not entirely our doing.  
  
We catch the black squirrels, though their blood is bitter, not very nourishing, and there are many of us to feed. What I would give for some soft, blinking creature to wander into my webs!  
  
And we are not the only hunters here. The pale Elves go silently about on errands unknown to us, and kill us whenever they see us. We try not to let them see us.  
  
There are legends of great spiders, our foremothers in forgotten days, who could feast on light itself, and sit glutted, sated, belching shadow and spinning it into webs. If we knew that trick, the gloom of Mirkwood would be darker still, and none would escape from us. We too would eat our fill.  
  
We are always hungry…


	2. Fire-moon Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere in Harad, one night a year...

The moon was round and dusty orange as it rose over the horizon of south Harad. Wind shrieked and clouds scuttled across the sky like tumbling leaves. No stars shone. No fires were lit that night, and all the people gathered silently around an old woman who spoke terrible truths. The mask she wore, with its squinted eyes and wide-screaming mouth, was a shadowy horror in the dimness. Her arms waved in the air over her head. Children huddled, shivering.  
  
All other times, the people of that village revered the power of the Eye.  
  
On fire-moon night, they feared it.


	3. Cat's Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A decade ago Berúthiel was sent away from Gondor, but she has not yet been forgotten by Men... or beasts.

The moon was a yellow slit in the darkness, a shining cat’s-eye that shone reflected in the River. The people were all shut up safely in their houses, and the streets were mine. I held my tail high and out of the dirt of the gutter as I wandered. My whiskers twitched at a scent—someone had dropped an apple-core, still sticky on the ends with bits of crushed nuts and a thick sweet coating. I hunched over it, eating, my fur puffed out in contentment. There was no reason to drag this delicacy back to my burrow just yet; there was nothing to fear tonight. I had heard the yearly commotion hours before. It had startled me from sleep for long enough to peer out and see people rushing past with brooms in their hands, and a coal-black cat dashing madly before them.  
  
I remember the story told to me and my siblings by our grandfather. He was an old rat by then, so tired and worn that he barely bothered to groom his matted fur anymore, but he was also old enough to remember a day in his youth when, for the first time, the cats—awful vicious beasts who killed our kind—were driven from the city. There had been an air of festivity to the day, he said, though people spoke in hushed tones of some woman who had been sent away at last. Only a handful of cats were allowed to remain, “useful” ones with striped or mottled coats, and even those were kept indoors that day. And every year since, on that same day, the people would frighten away the cats. They wouldn’t harm them (though I would not mind if they did) but at least it meant that for one night, the city was safe for us. We relished the opportunity, so near to winter, to fill up on all the food we could reach.  
  
I sat back on my haunches to lick the sweetness from my paws, and glanced skyward, towards the moon. But something blocked my view. I blinked to clear my vision.  
  
Two cat’s-eyes towered over me, gleaming yellowly against the darkness. I didn’t even have time to scream.


	4. Echoes in the Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Moria, voices echo.

Shh, young one, you’ll wake it. We are here. There are many of us. Many.  
  
 _Many many_.  
  
So many we will one day burst the seams of the mountain, and cover the lands all around like ants from the anthill.   
  
Dark here. Wonderful dark. _Dark_. _Dark_.   
  
We didn’t build it. No no. And we’re not the only things that call it home now...  
  
Shh, you’ll wake it. _Shh_!  
  
Do you hear—do you hear that? Something is moving above us.   
  
_Above_. In the upper halls?  
  
 _Clang-crash-splash_.  
  
Did you hear— _did you hear_?  
  
Did it hear?  
  
 _Did it hear_?  
  
It’s awake…


	5. Transformation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One way to make an orc

He was alone. Terrible things had been done to him, but he had ceased to mind the pain. Only this terrified him: his memories had slowly eroded to darkness, until he didn’t know what he had forgotten.   
  
_His own hand moved upward and touched his face like a stranger’s_.  
  
A bowl of water had been shoved under the door. It sloshed over onto the dirt floor before shivering to stillness. As he reached for it, torchlight shone through the cracks in his prison.  
  
 _His fingernails, broken like glass, left red trails along his skin_.  
  
It had been a mirror in the gloom, showing him a mangled thing. He had spilled all the water in his horror. He wished he had not seen it, for now he could no longer remember what he used to look like.   
  
_He scratched at the skin that was not his own. Somehow it had grown over his face like mold. He tore open the boils and scraped at the scabs_.  
  
It was no use. The face was his now.  
  
 _Dark blood dripped in his eyes, down his cheeks, into his lolling mouth. He shuddered_.  
  
Its mouth drank his fear, and swallowed it down like bitterness.


	6. And they fled in fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Ithilien

Anyone who lived in Ithilien and yet did not see the darkness approaching was blind. During the eerie calm of the past months, I had prepared, gathered my family’s most treasured belongings into packs.  
  
But when the moment came, I could not go, and my wife’s face mirrored my resolve. Ithilien was our home. Our son implored us in whispers, but fell silent as I kissed his children goodbye.   
  
We watched as our neighbors rode away, crying out to each other as they went. We waited on the step, defiant, calm. And then the storm came upon us, bringing fire.


	7. Hollow Spears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Dead Marshes, time wears away.

The wet reeds point skyward, pale and water-washed spears of fallen forms that lie now beneath the murk. An oily film on the water makes a mirror for the grey above, and no sun shall bleach their bones. Instead time wears away, and nightly flames burn.  
  
No one watched the creeping marsh swallowing dry graves. Opponents lie here side by side, while twisted forms of water-weeds cast ghastly shadows across their empty eyes. The sad wind still echoes their falling cries.  
  
Look out across the bare marshland. Insects flit above the hollow spears, as if the battle were only yesterday.


	8. Fell Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The enemy has many servants. But not all of them are particularly effective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A silly spookyfic!

A dark cloud appeared, like a breath of corruption, exuding dread: they had hearts black as their wings, and spoke to one another of their fell mission…  
  
“So, what are we supposed to be doing?”  
“You asked that five minutes ago!”  
“Would you two stop bickering? I can hardly hear myself thinking.”  
“Because you ain’t!”   
“Grah! If _all_ of you don’t pipe down…”   
“Who put you in charge, you ninny?”   
“Shut up and start looking!”  
  
Far below, a raven watched the gang of crebain flying madly past, glanced at the people huddled in the bushes, and cawed softly in disdain.


	9. Their Gaze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dangers of razing Minas Morgul

Time had passed. Enough, it was thought, that the razing of Minas Morgul could be done in safety. Crews of men with hammers and picks and carts came to do the work each day, but before night fell, all would leave the bounds of the grim city, for they feared to sleep there. The few who had done so had woken to tell of horrible dreams, and had fled the place immediately, vowing never to return.   
  
But even awake, all was not safe. Along each winding street, in each jagged old building, was a single spot of shadow that remained unbanished even in brightest daylight. They ranged from the size of a small coin to an emptiness like a great arched doorway, grim and unknown. Men would shudder and quickly look away when they spied one: the Nazgûl had once looked there, and their gaze lingered. Those who stared too deeply would find themselves within that gaze, trapped.  
  
When pulled away, they could never tell what they had seen: something too terrible for the sunlit world. They would only whimper and stare with blank eyes. The Nazgûl’s gaze lingered, and those caught in it were never quite the same again.


	10. Spectre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is Faramir/ghost!Boromir and is a follow-on (but not really sequel) to "Fortune Favors the Bold"

  
It was different now, naturally. No more the frantic sweat and quickened breaths, no more skin scoured against each other or living heat shared, but instead a slow and strange ritual that seemed to draw them both in, beyond their control. If this was what was left to them, he would not refuse it.  
  
He could only feel it if he closed his eyes, called up old memories, aching and brilliant, and let his thoughts wander. Only then would Boromir’s ghostly touch begin. It felt cool, almost mistlike, tantalizing. At first only those hands stroked him, but then he felt his brother’s kisses upon his mouth. For some time he feared to breathe, but when his head went light he would have to gasp for air. The cool touch enveloped him, until he felt it on every inch of his skin. It even seemed to reach inside him, to weave through his blood. He writhed and shivered against it, helpless as a man caught in an undertow, desperate…  
  
When it was done, he would wonder how it was all possible. Once he had asked this… but Boromir’s ghost had only stared through him with doleful eyes, and refused to answer.


	11. Eye

The Rangers waited in the darkness for the prowling Orcs. Dying leaves blackened by night drooped on the trees, and rain splashed on them, cold and merciless, driven by wind and torn from the thick clouds by thunder. Faramir, so focused, determined, barely noticed the wet chill. He merely adjusted his hood so the rain did not run down his face.   
  
But even he shivered a moment later: ahead and towering over them was a half-ruined statue, defaced with crude symbols of the Eye. In a sudden flash of lightning, that eye had seemed to move… to look at him.


	12. Burning

I couldn’t escape. The straw-haired men chased us to the edge of the forest, and trapped us there. Their horses were too fast. Something hit me before I could attack.  
  
Now I wake, and curse them again. I feel cooling flesh beneath me, but it won’t cool for long. The fire is coming nearer: I can hear the crackling, I can smell the stench. The weight of other bodies presses on me, and dark fluid is dripping into my eyes. But when the fire approaches, I will burst out, driven by heat and agony. I alone may escape the slaughter.


	13. Dark in the Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Berúthiel's white cat tells its story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Includes description of an induced miscarriage and other unpleasant things.

Some of the things said about my Queen are true. But it is a lie to say that she was cruel to us. She was not. She loves us, and we her.  
  
She tells me that I came to her as a gift. “From him,” she says with a quiet, spiteful laugh. “A peace-offering.” I barely remember it. My eyes had only just opened, and they opened on her face. She smiled at me, and tucked me into her arms. She was young then.  
  
She never told me what happened later. She, like my kind, keeps her secrets, and I was too small to make sense of it, the way her eyes flashed as she happened to see him, as if she had discerned something hateful. I do remember, though, two months later, how she told me to go to her gardens and bring her certain herbs. I carried them in my mouth when I crept back to her. She brewed them and burned them and drank them down, and then the blood came gushing, soaking her fine bed-linens. She sobbed softly into her pillow as it drained from her, and I nuzzled against her hair, her thick black hair that even now smells of bitter herbs and blood and ashes. It was the only time she wept, and after it her face wore a look of cold indifference.  
  
He left soon after for his house by the sea, and never again visited her chambers. Over time I found the others for her, my fellows, cats of midnight black who could speak to her, and she to them. She would sit enthroned on her chair, and she would feed us tidbits from her hand, and whisper to us that we were her children. She would stare out the window at the city and the river, and I would entwine about her legs, and she would devise her schemes.  
  
She played with the people like I do with mice. Her reason for it I do not know. Perhaps it had to do with what she saw in the King’s eyes. It may have been a sort of vengeance. Or perhaps she simply enjoyed it. Either way, she was good at it. She would send the black cats out all over Gondor to find secrets for her, and I made certain that they told her all they knew. What she would do with those secrets I will not tell, except to say that there were still some who served her loyally, or were perhaps too frightened of her to refuse.  
  
The people feared her, feared us. They whispered hideous rumors of her to one another while my fellows lay hidden and listening, then stiffened and fell silent when they saw gleaming yellow eyes peering from the shadows. She laughed when we told her their words.  
  
When at last they came for her, we knew of their plan, and we were ready. The black cats sat in a line before her, staring at the men as they entered her chambers, and I sat beside her. Her long fingers scratched behind my ears, and her other hand clutched a dagger. Her herbs burned on plates all about the room, filling the air with smoke that stung their eyes and caught in their throats. My fellows narrowed their eyes and hissed their warning. Their fur stood on end, and their sharp claws gleamed in the candlelight. But the men were too many. She stabbed two of them before she was dragged away, and my teeth found their bare skin in many places, but in the end I found myself stuffed into a thick sack. Trapped, I screamed piteously for her. I thought they would kill us all.  
  
And now I sit beside her, and the deep black waves around our little boat glint under the sickle moon. But her eyes are dark in the moonlight, and she sheds no tears. I do not know where the waters will take us.  
  
“Away,” she tells me silently. “Away, and that is enough.”


	14. The Madness of Queen Berúthiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A more humorous take on Queen Berúthiel and her cats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.

In a small seedy tavern in Osgiliath, gossip was fighting with ale for mouth-space. The topic of all the hubbub was the young Queen Berúthiel and her pets.  
  
“They say she talks to them,” said one man.  
  
“Nothing so strange about that, though, is there? My sister talks to her cats,” said another, sipping diffidently at his mug.  
  
“Ah, but do they answer?”  
  
The man who had spoken shrugged. “You have a point.”  
  
“No, wait just a moment,” another man, who had been eavesdropping, said as he sidled into their group. “Cats can’t speak. How could they answer?”   
  
Yet another man laughed heartily at this and scooted his chair closer. “Indeed! Do they tap it out in code?”  
  
“No. Some animals speak. Huan did.”  
  
“Yes, but that was an exception.”  
  
“I’ve also heard of some ravens up North that can…”  
  
“Ravens?”  
  
“Oh, well, yes, a Northern raven maybe, but none in Gondor can talk, and anyway, ravens aren’t cats! So how do they talk to her?”  
  
“Possibly telepathically,” said the first man. “And it is possible that she talks to them telepathically. Possibly.”  
  
“Telepathically possibly!” the others laughed in a mocking tone, before heading on into the next subject of the evening.  
  
* * *  
  
In her study, Berúthiel felt she was going mad. From behind the closed door to her bedchamber came an incessant yowling. The cats that Tarannon had bought for her… she adored them, but she had come to the conclusion that there was something quite strange about them. For the first part, they seemed to be singing…  
  
 _Meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow MEOW MEOW MEOW **MEOW MEOW MEOW MEOW MEOOOOWW**!!!_  
  
…the Meow Mix song? She thought, then suddenly realized that she had no notion where that idea had come from, as she had never heard of a “Meow Mix song.” It had seemed to pop into her head out of nowhere. But the strangeness of this occurrence was nothing compared to what she heard next.  
  
“ _No, you fool! You’re OFF KEY! And it’s ‘MEOW’ –like that!—not ‘Mee-ow’! Can’t you hear the difference? Then do it right! Now, once more from the top_ ,” an unfamiliar voice said loudly and clearly.  
  
She jumped in startlement. Who could have gotten into her bedchamber, and why were they talking to her cats?  
  
Stealthily, she got up from her desk and crept towards her chamber. Taking great pains not to let the hinges creak, she turned the knob and opened the door just far enough for her to peek through.   
  
She saw no one there, except the cats. But they… the black cats were lined up in two rows, facing the white one. The black cats were again yowling their song, and the white cat’s tail was switching from side to side in time with their meowing, exactly like a conductor’s wand. This was ridiculous behavior for cats, wasn’t it? She wasn’t even sure she was really seeing it, and the white cat seemed to agree as it glanced over at her with a completely innocent expression. She slid the door shut again, returned to her desk, and covered her head with her arms in despair.  
  
Some time later, and after having endured their yowling and the inexplicable voices during the whole of that time, she called for one of her handmaids. The girl, who she trusted implicitly, was not only one of the most level-headed people she knew, but also had quite a bit of experience at the healing arts, and would most likely know it if she happened to be coming down with some sort of strange fever.  
  
“Do you hear that?” Berúthiel asked casually when the girl arrived moments later.  
  
“The cats? Aye, and what a ruckus! Have they been fed recently?” the girl said in reply. “Or perhaps are they in…”  
  
Berúthiel cut her off and waved away the question. “I didn’t just mean the cats.”  
  
“Is there something else you’re hearing, my lady?”  
  
“Well, it is just… I keep thinking I’m hearing someone talking,” the Queen said, leaning close to her handmaid and nearly whispering her words. “But it’s not someone out in the hallway. It’s definitely coming from right in there!”  
  
“ _All right, now we have it together, let’s work on our volume, people! It needs to be LOUD! They need to hear you clear across the River. Sing from your diaphragms!_ ”  
  
She stiffened. “You didn’t hear that?”  
  
“I don’t know how you can hear anything over those cats. Here, lie down for a bit and I’ll get you a cool moist cloth for your head, my lady. Such noise could make anyone doubt their senses,” the girl said before bustling off.  
  
Obediently, Berúthiel reclined on the little couch. I think I really am going mad, she thought.  
  
But a lie-down with a cool cloth on her head did nothing. Neither did going for a stroll in the gardens later that afternoon. The noise and the voices followed her.   
  
In a rage, she burst into her own bedchamber, ready to shoo the cats out any way she had to. But in that instant, the cats stopped their song, and the voices also stopped. Ten furry faces looked up at her expectantly. Dazed and deflated, she sank down onto the floor next to them. The white cat climbed into her lap. Two of the black cats butted their heads lovingly against her hands, begging to be stroked. The others waited their turns. She indulged them for many hours, long past suppertime, until she climbed into her bed, exhausted.  
  
The next day went just about the same way, as did the one after that. It was impossible for her to get any work done with the constant meowing going on, and the only way to get it to cease was to go and be with the cats.   
  
By the end of the week, Tarannon had finally noticed that his wife had not dined with him in days, and he demanded her presence.  
  
Unable to refuse her King’s command, she left her cats alone in her bedchamber, and went.  
  
She sat across from him, toying with her food. Her fork shuffled a bit of stewed lamb around her plate—  
  
 _“Meow meow meow meow!”_  
  
—and she took a hesitant nibble at it—  
  
 _“You’re off the beat! Pay attention!”_  
  
—and then had a large gulp of her wine. For a moment it seemed to help, but—  
  
 _“Meow meow **MEOWWWW**!”_  
  
She frowned ferociously in frustration, and noticed that her husband was speaking, but she couldn’t hear his words over all the noise.  
  
Unable to take it anymore, she stood up, her goblet still in her hand, and shrieked, “Would you please be QUIET?” She brought the glass down hard against the edge of the table, sending wine and shards flying across the room.  
  
Tarannon couldn’t decide whether to be taken aback, concerned for her, or furious. In a fit of indecision he pushed his chair out from the table, blinked at her, and walked out of the room.  
  
Berúthiel stared at his retreating back. She looked down at the broken stem in her hand and the wine dripping off the corner of the table. She hadn’t meant to do that. Well, she thought with a sniffle. If that’s how he’s going to treat me, it can all be his fault.   
  
A wicked smile spread across her face at the next thought: maybe I can get the cats to…  
  
And thus it was that Queen Berúthiel went quite mad.


	15. Silenced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the back of Boromir's mind, something is happening.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, something was happening. It felt like something scuttling around in the darkness, something small that might be crushed underfoot. It made him uneasy.  
  
He tried to remember the things that he used to do… the things that once made him happy. Food was savorless now, and wine without taste. The joy he had once had at practicing with the blade was gone, and the activity left him weary only. And the people he had liked to speak with were gone—where? He couldn’t remember, and this made the shuffling in his thought grow louder. All that was left was walking in his beloved city, so this he did. He left the Citadel, wandering on a route his feet remembered, though the city was much changed. The few huddled people that he saw seemed to cringe away and scurry out of his path like beaten dogs. At first this had alarmed him, but now he barely noticed.   
  
How he loved his city! This was what he had fought for, gathered an army greater than any Gondor had known since the days of its ancient glory. Men had flocked to his banner, just as he had said. And the victory had come so easy he had almost doubted it, but no more: they had won finally, he was certain of it. He placed his hand on the wall. The white of the stone under his palm was stained dirty grey by the twilight shadow that lingered at all times, and something in his thought grew restless at the sight, but he shook the feeling away. The dimness was comfortable, like a darkened chamber for rest after toil. The silence was the quiet of peace. He patted the wall absently and went on his way.   
  
Even in the darkness, he cast a long shadow on the ground behind him. It grew against his fading form, against the glint of gold that lay on the loose chain around his neck. It grew with every passing hour, finally silencing even the last desperate portion of his true thought, as it slowly, inevitably, engulfed him.


	16. The Master

Tom had been fond of hobbits ever since they had appeared, long ago, near his little river-valley, and most particularly of any that wandered into his lands, and stopped to talk or to hear a tale. They were kindly, and close to the earth. His most recent visitors had been strange ones, though. The trinket they carried… He had not seen it before, but knew instantly that it was the same weapon that had caused all the troubles so many years ago. He had wished them good fortune when they left with the thing, and then he had put it out of his mind and gone about his business, thinking only rarely of his recent guests as winter passed. And strangely, he had not had any other visitors since; no Elves stopped as they passed by on their way west, none of his hobbit-friends came through the woods. None but beasts and trees and wind and stars looked upon the house of Bombadil.   
  
Spring had come, and summer after, and now it was again Goldberry’s washing day, and she had left the house in the earliest sprinklings of morning rain. But by evening she had not returned. The fire at the hearth awaited her, as did Tom. When darkness fell, he began to worry. Goldberry knew these lands as well as he, and could not have gotten lost. Where had she gone? When the moon rose, he wandered out to look for her…  
  
Something was wrong. The air, still wet with rain, felt odd. The ground whispered warnings. The trees shivered in fear. He tried to sing softly to himself, but his voice caught in his throat. He searched, walking familiar paths… and suddenly stopped short. The borders of his lands had shrunk and closed in, and there was darkness outside.   
  
Something rustled the leaves of a shrub just across the invisible borders of his realm, and a moment later a terrified hobbit appeared at a run, and fell face-first in front of Tom. The poor fellow was thin and wan, and had cuts on his face and arms from running helter-skelter through bushes and brambles. His eyes were bright as those of hunted rabbits as he looked up to see Tom, who simply stood and stared in surprise.  
  
“He is here! He is here! They are chasing me!” the little figure squeaked breathlessly. Tom shook off his stupor, and held out a hand to help the Hobbit to his feet.  
  
“Whoever chases you, you are safe now,” Tom said, speaking with more confidence than he actually felt. He heard Goldberry speak in his memory… _‘for Tom, he is the Master’_ her voice said liltingly, as if from far away. He had not known foreboding and fear like this before, and it was a strange feeling. He led the hobbit back along the path towards his home, unsure of what was to come.  
  
“It is all burned! It is all gone!” the little fellow moaned over and over.  
  
“Slow down, there! Tell me your tale when we are safe inside! A warm house awaits us,” Tom said. As they walked, he could feel it. His land was being closed in, wrapped in darkness. Horrid clamor sounded just out of hearing, of rending and shattering and cruel voices carried on the wind.  
  
The yellow light streaming out through the windows seemed to be the last pleasant light in Arda. The stars were drowned in thick dark clouds above, and the only other light, a reddish glow on the horizon all around, was eerie and fearsome. At last the door closed behind them, and Tom stopped for only a moment to look out, though he wasn’t sure what he looked for.  
  
The hobbit fell wearily onto a low seat, shoulders hunched over. Tom sat near and waited.  
  
“Things have been so bad recently… there was little enough food this year, and too many were down in the Lockholes to do any work, and Sharkey’s men took what little was left and did no work themselves… but then… then…” The fellow still shook with fear, and he seemed to shrink at the memories. “Then… Sharkey and his Men were gone. The new Boss… they burned the Shire… they were chasing me… everyone else was dead…”  
  
The dark clouds broke in storm, light burst through the windows, and thunder crashed outside. Tom started. How had he not known of these happenings? He stood and looked down at the huddled figure in his parlor. “Stay here. Tom must go and see what can be done.”  
  
He pulled the door open, stepped out, and saw darkness before him. Never before had Tom fought, for he had never had a need, but as the darkness wrapped around his house, he fought it, silently, unmoving. He stood his ground, for he was the Master.  
  
He saw the glint of gold on the hand that reached for him…  
  
It had no power over him, and had once glittered on his own hand without effect. But its power encroached, crept closer.  
  
Behind him, foul creatures set his house ablaze. He heard the creaking of the timbers, the cries of the last hobbit as he perished within. He could do nothing. It was all he could do to stand unmoving, hold the one place where his feet were planted.  
  
The Dark One tossed down a brooch of blue stones to the ground, and trod it into the mud.   
  
Goldberry was gone.  
  
In a fury he had never before known, he hurled himself at the darkness… Last as he was First…  
  
And darkness fell over all.


	17. Éowyn’s Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains Éowyn/Gríma

She walked down a dark hallway. It had once been fair, with weavings along the walls that told the ancient tales of her homeland, but she now little remembered them, or what it was like in the light. There was little light here now.   
  
She did remember her family—her brother, her uncle, a wisp of memory of her parents long-dead—but those memories did little to cheer her. They had gone, and she wished now that she had followed. Those that remained knew her not at all.   
  
His presence… even in her nightmares she could not have described it, his love that hated, his eyes that raked across her cruelly, his hands that scored her flesh wherever they touched. At first she had endured it, for she was the daughter of kings, strong and steadfast… but now, far worse, she had grown used to it.   
  
He had come to her when all had failed, and as she readied the people to flee from that place he spoke to her his bargain, her life for her loyalty. Her hand had flown, and he had winced and then smiled, all dark, lank hair and white teeth. And then he had prepared for her a cage, and there she remained.   
  
Within her cage she walked in ruined Meduseld, and paced the floor in haunted memory. Within her cage she stood beside his chair and watched with weary eyes, waiting on him as she had on Théoden while he still lived. Within her cage she withered, unable to remember how she once had beat against the bars and screamed in useless rage. Within her cage she slept in comforting dreams, like a child huddled around a soft toy. Even had the door opened now, she could not have walked out of it.  
  
Éowyn jolted awake from the nightmare in the early hours, when all was still dark. Her heart pounded, and sweat was beaded on her brow. Still shaking, she rose to her feet and clad herself, putting on her waist a sturdy belt, and with it her sword. She waited for the sun to rise over the fields of Rohan, and soon, she hoped, soon would come some answer, some chance for her escape, before this nightmare or any other could be made real.


	18. Seeking

In unceasing chase through a sunless world he rides. The creature that carries him is of another flesh, driven and tormented. Its agony is thin as moonlight, tangible as a heavy, rank fog. Its beating hooves are far away.  
  
Terror goes before him, surrounds him. Fear fills the endless night.  
  
Animated by a will that is not his own, he seeks. It long ago consumed him, devouring any memory of life and leaving gaping emptiness and sharp, cold desire. This void is the true world, lit only by a gleam of gold, and shadowed by a dark and reaching hand.


	19. Orc's Halloween

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of silliness! And yes, the Orc in this story is the same fluffybunnies!Orc from "The Mouth." He just has a name now.

It had been after his third raid that it occurred to Umluk. The group of men he and the others had crept up on and done battle with had been in the midst of some unusual doings… they had been gathered around a little fire, feasting and drinking and laughing and telling tales. As if the day were something special… like a celebration. Later, he had gone to his commander with a question.  
  
“Do we get holidays?” he asked, towering over the shorter (but far more vicious) Uruk.  
  
His commander had looked at him, expression horrified. “Why would we get holidays, you maggot?”  
  
“Well, so we could celebrate things. Maybe birthdays…”  
  
“Do you _know_ your birthday?” the commander asked with a foul and disdainful laugh. He had a point—even if an Orc had bothered to ask such a question of his elders, it was doubtful that they would have noted the date of that occasion.   
  
Struggling past the interruption, the big Uruk continued. “Or celebrating changes of seasons, that could be nice!”  
  
The other Orc snorted.   
  
“Well, I think it’s a good idea. It seems like all we ever do is kill things and destroy things and pillage things. I think it might be fun to… I don’t know, have sweets, or give each other presents.”  
  
His commander promptly gave him a whack upside the head. “Have you been stealing my liquor again? Because that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”  
  
“Or how about something with bunnies? Everyone likes bunnies…”  
  
“Roasted?”  
  
The tall Uruk shuddered. “No! Alive, and hopping around! It’s very springtime-like.”  
  
“Over my filthy and rotting corpse you can have bunnies.”  
  
Umluk almost thought for a moment that this might be arranged, but then thought better of it when he caught the malicious glint in the other’s eye. “All right, no bunnies then. What about… perhaps we could decorate a tree?”  
  
“No. Trees are for chopping down and burning.”  
  
“Well, something with plenty of candles, then? And singing?”  
  
His commander sniffed. “Not a chance.”  
  
“Or something with lots of food?” Umluk said, getting slightly desperate. His commander seemed slightly more open to this idea, so he went on, describing lustily the sweet and savory delights of a proper table. He was so wrapped up in the idea that he didn’t notice the other Uruk’s nose turning up in disgust at the dainties he described. When he did notice, finally, he trailed off. He didn’t have any more ideas. Dejected, he wandered away, feeling eyes on him, and rough laughter following. He was distressed for a while at the realization that he had cemented his status as an outcast within the company, but distracted himself by trying to come up with other ideas for a proper Orcish holiday.  
  
That night, an idea came. He liked it. It could work. It was a good idea.  
  
There weren’t many unsmashed pumpkins to be had, but he found one. And the Orc-o’-lantern he carved was the best… well, the only… one in Mordor.


	20. Chased

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir is pursued by a fearsome creature.

The sky above was deep blue and speckled with stars, and Ithil hung low and yellow, just risen above the far horizon. Wisps of mist wove their way through the streets of this place, and Faramir stared down the deserted lane, watching for any hint of movement in the dim light. He shivered a little, and glanced about at the others. A few were near him, their faces cautious and determined. Tension flickered through them all—on each such night, there was always the fear that some would be lost. The dark things that hid in the shadows were never wholly beaten, and seemed to grow stronger as the seasons passed. Ever wary, he crept down the path paved with pale stone, and listened, hearing only the night wind whistling past his ears.  
  
The shout came, loud and near, perhaps only around the bend in the road. At its sound he tensed, and heard suddenly the slap of feet coming towards him. A number of others, dark-clad, came rushing and soon passed, brushing hectically against him in their flight, but he did not move. Then he saw it—a shape, dim and eerie, moving fast but silent. It seemed to slide along the ground for all its speed, growing taller as it approached, and then its arms lifted. The moonlight dripped along the edges of its form, as if reluctant to illuminate such a fell creature. And then it was only moments away from him. His hand fumbled at his belt, then fell to his side—it was all too clear that he could not fight it, not here, not alone. The only hope lay in escape. With a last glance at the terrible thing, he turned and ran.  
  
He dashed back along the winding streets. Cold wind bit at his ears and tore at his cloak, but his pounding heart brought heat to his face and fingers. He leapt over debris, cut through narrow alleys and across dark courtyards, hoping to confuse the thing that followed him. He could hear the whisper of its presence, and though he would not chance the moment that it would take to look back, he felt as if it were just behind him, breathing upon his neck.  
  
Soon he was in sight of the others of the company. They stood by the small stone guardhouse that had been chosen as their place of defense, and as they saw him they began to shout.   
  
“Faramir, Faramir!” their voices cried, high with panic in the cold night. “Hurry! It is just behind you!”   
  
Terror catching his breath in his throat, he forced himself into a last burst of speed. But it was not enough. A hard, cold hand grasped at his shoulder, halting him and turning him. Now behind him, he could hear the others cry out in dismay, but his eyes were fixed on the thing that loomed so near. Ithil was just behind it, and the face was dark, its features hidden behind a swath of ragged hood. Faramir’s blood ran cold, and he nearly cried out, but he was determined not to give in to this final fear.   
  
“I have caught you,” its voice said, a low and frightful growl, and its hand rose…  
  
It cast back the hood, baring a head of dark, mussed hair and a familiar face. The grim city faded away beyond, replaced with the ordinary sights of the streets of Minas Tirith sleeping in the moonlight, and Faramir’s pounding heart slowed its rhythm as the other boys crowded around, chattering and congratulating one another. Suddenly, Boromir laughed. “And that means that next time, it is your turn to be the Fell Spirit.”  
  
Faramir grinned, and nodded.   
  
But the night was wearing on, and Faramir was soon yawning, so they said goodbye to their companions and promised to come the next night for another game. As they headed homewards, Boromir took off the old, threadbare cloak and hung it over Faramir’s shoulders.   
  
“So you liked the game? You did not get frightened?” Their father had only lately, and only with careful persuasion, deemed Faramir old enough to go with him to play with the older lads, and Boromir had been careful to watch over him. He had worried that the game would be too much for his rather impressionable little brother, but Faramir had done well enough at it, and seemed pleased.  
  
“Aye,” said Faramir. “I liked it. And I did not get frightened! Or at least not very much.”  
  
“You waited long to run, though,” Boromir said questioningly.   
  
“I was thinking of what I would do had it been real. It would not be good to be too quick to flee from danger,” Faramir answered after a moment, his voice seeming serious and thoughtful. “Would you?”  
  
Boromir shrugged and glanced at Faramir… who now drew the hood close over his own head and stood with moonlight dripping from his form, arms outstretched and menacing. Boromir blinked as he came nearer, and then dashed away, to be chased home by a short dark ghost that laughed as it ran.


	21. A Thunder of Hoofbeats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Horses of Rohan.

I was far out in the fields, alone, when I saw him. Even from a distance, I knew it could be none other—I knew him by his gait, the swish of his proud mane, the hint of his whinny that came to my ears across the whispering grass. Time could not change those things; certainly not the few months that had passed since he had been stolen from us. I have known few finer horses. Taken because of his coat, a deep black, and his great strength and speed, I had always thought they had not guessed at the strength of his will. I had always believed he would escape, and return here.   
  
Now he returned indeed, but not as I had dreamed. I studied the shape that held the reins: a darker black even than he, darker than deepest night-shadows or lightless tunnels home to nameless things, a man-form sat astride him, urged him faster with a sharp but subtle motion. The thing rode him like some sucking insect, heedless and immobile. I felt myself begin to quake as I stared.  
  
But I could not stand idly by and do nothing. I was not sure if he or his rider had seen me, but in some futile hope I called out, called his name, ran towards him. They saw me then. As they drew nearer, I could see then the welts and scars that marred my friend’s flanks, the pink froth that speckled his mouth. I saw no recognition; only dull, mindless panic stared back from his eyes.   
  
Then his rider turned his hooded head towards me also. I felt as if someone had yanked my reins backward with an iron arm, so powerful was that glance. I could not go on, and felt my head lower, though I did not will it. I would have crouched like a mouse under a hawk’s stare, had I been able to make myself move.   
  
They passed by only feet away in a dank gale, a thunder of hoof beats, and they were gone. I ran then—ran towards home and safety, still shaking.


	22. Some New Terror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under the eaves of Mirkwood, a new terror appears.

The sound of weeping—sobs and sighing breaths broken by high soft keening—emanated from the cluster of small furtive dwellings among the dark trees. Those who lived in this place now huddled behind bolted doors and shuttered windows, beset by grief and fear. These were not strangers to folk here, under the very eaves of Mirkwood where twilight lingered and shadows crept, but now some new terror lurked, bringing new grief.   
  
Behind the walls of one rough, simple house, a small body lay wrapped in a bare cloth. The child’s mother sat, weak and empty, face tear-streaked, beside the small bed. There, that morning, the child had been found. Its throat had been torn and gnawed, but little blood had dripped to the bedclothes.   
  
This death had come only days after another. A child of only a few months of age had been stolen from the cradle by night, and nothing had been found of it since.   
  
Several of the men had gone into the forest then, seeking for the murderer. They had found strange signs; birds that screamed as they passed, as if maddened, and small beasts that seemed to wander lost all about their nests and burrows. The broken shells of eggs were found below the branches, and bits of fur and sinew clung to the bark of one hoary tree.   
  
But no glimpse of the new terror that haunted Mirkwood did they see, but for a brief dark flash that might have been no more than a squirrel.


End file.
